Back stateside, I’m battling jetlag and nostalgia.
A dear college friend had clinically diagnosed synesthesia – colors appeared to her when she read words and heard music – and I was always ineffably jealous. That jealousy, I think, has something to do with why I fell in love with Morocco. The country is a brilliant whirlwind of sound and image and hue and scent and none of it quite lines up.
In Marrakech the tiny streets are crowded with donkeys pulling carts and shiny new sports cars and grand taxis smushed full of villagers and zillions upon zillions of zipping mopeds. In the mountains the air is chilly and fresh and the light is misty and glimmering and the mountains are so close it feels like you could reach out and touch them. Everywhere there are walnuts and dates and smoking meats.
Muslims believe that only God can create perfection, and so every item is crafted w
ith some small imperfection. Door latches stick and hidden in the design of carpets is a slight asymmetry. Likewise, no picture of the country is entirely one thing or another: the hillside villages are all stone and wood with animals wandering about as they please and children chasing each other up the path – and then you notice that one of the children is wearing lime green crocks. Sitting at a café with white table cloths and Gucci-clad patrons, you could be in the south of France until a man cycles by with a live chicken under his arm. Nothing in life is ever all one thing or another, but Moroccans take pastiche to a whole new artform.
I won’t bore you with the play-by-play, but I will post a handful of snippets and say this: my explorer’s spirit has been renewed and I have a lot whole lot of tromping ahead of me!
A dear college friend had clinically diagnosed synesthesia – colors appeared to her when she read words and heard music – and I was always ineffably jealous. That jealousy, I think, has something to do with why I fell in love with Morocco. The country is a brilliant whirlwind of sound and image and hue and scent and none of it quite lines up.
In Marrakech the tiny streets are crowded with donkeys pulling carts and shiny new sports cars and grand taxis smushed full of villagers and zillions upon zillions of zipping mopeds. In the mountains the air is chilly and fresh and the light is misty and glimmering and the mountains are so close it feels like you could reach out and touch them. Everywhere there are walnuts and dates and smoking meats.
Muslims believe that only God can create perfection, and so every item is crafted w
ith some small imperfection. Door latches stick and hidden in the design of carpets is a slight asymmetry. Likewise, no picture of the country is entirely one thing or another: the hillside villages are all stone and wood with animals wandering about as they please and children chasing each other up the path – and then you notice that one of the children is wearing lime green crocks. Sitting at a café with white table cloths and Gucci-clad patrons, you could be in the south of France until a man cycles by with a live chicken under his arm. Nothing in life is ever all one thing or another, but Moroccans take pastiche to a whole new artform.I won’t bore you with the play-by-play, but I will post a handful of snippets and say this: my explorer’s spirit has been renewed and I have a lot whole lot of tromping ahead of me!
